HUNGER, and sultry heat, and nipping blast
From bleak hill-top, and length of march by night
Through heavy swamp, or over snow-clad height--
These hardships ill-sustained, these dangers past,
The roving Spanish Bands are reached at last,
Charged, and dispersed like foam: but as a flight
Of scattered quails by signs do reunite,
So these,--and, heard of once again, are chased
With combinations of long-practised art
And newly-kindled hope; but they are fled--
Gone are they, viewless as the buried dead:
Where now?--Their sword is at the Foeman's heart;
And thus from year to year his walk they thwart,
And hang like dreams around his guilty bed.
More verses by William Wordsworth
- The Force Of Prayer, Or, The Founding Of Bolton, A Tradition
- Sonnet: On Seeing Miss Helen Maria Williams Weep At A Tale Of Distress
- The Horn Of Egremont Castle
- The Sonnet Ii
- The Highland Broach